Walking out of the monstrous
gilded cathedral, glinting
in the Mexico City
afternoon sun,
I pass a crippled man
one leg, one crutch,
a dirty hat,
before his toothless grin.
I drop in 20 pesos.
I want to stuff every peso,
every bill Americano
into the hat.
I don’t.
Instead, I go to McDonald’s
for a plastic bottle of agua.
20 pesos.
Originally published in the Communicator's League